TOM REGRETTED coming almost as soon as he got there. He'd never much liked the man and liked even less the twist of jealousy that seeing him always inspired. Some people just brought out the worst in you. Truscott Hooper, known to friends and sycophants alike—both well represented here this evening—simply as Troop, was sitting at a little table in the far corner of the crowded college hall, signing copies of his book. There was a long line of adoring fans, some of whom Tom recognized. They should have known better.
Troop was on tour, publicizing his new bestseller, a thriller set in postinvasion Iraq. He was on the cover of this week's People magazine and Tom had seen him on the Today show. The book was already being made into a movie. It featured the same hero as the last three books, finely tailored to the spirit of the age (former Special Forces operative Brad Bannerman, dangerous but with the heart of a poet, wrongly disgraced for a misunderstood act of bravery, et cetera). Tom hadn't read any of them. It was hard enough to watch them sit gloatingly at the top of the bestseller lists without running the risk of discovering they were also actually rather good. That was what the critics said anyhow. There was nothing more galling than a fellow writer who managed to sell millions of books and get good reviews. It stole all legitimate grounds for contempt.
No sane New York publisher would include Montana on a book tour for an author as big as Troop. Fewer than a million people lived there and most of them had better things to do than read books. No, Troop's presence here this evening, the return of the famous author to the bosom of his alma mater, the University of Montana, Missoula (to which he had already apparently made a lavish donation—you could almost hear the library sprouting new wings), had nothing to do with selling books. It was, it had to be—in Tom's view—simply an act of patronizing vanity.
Troop was, by a long way, the most successful novelist ever produced by the UM creative-writing program. When Tom enrolled, in the mid-seventies, Troop was in his third year and already a star. He'd sold short stories to The New Yorker and was about to have his first novel published. At six-feet-five, he was literally, as well as professionally, head and shoulders above everyone else. He was dressed tonight, as always, entirely in black. It was a kind of trademark. The black beard and flowing black hair were grizzled now, but this—Tom had to concede—only gave him an even greater gravitas. They were both in their mid-fifties but Tom was the only one who looked it.
Troop's handsome face had been on posters all over town for weeks and this evening's talk in the university's largest auditorium had been a sellout. There were even people standing at the back. The speech had been infuriatingly witty and modest and interesting and the applause at the end had made the windows rattle. Admission to this champagne reception afterward was strictly by ticket only.
Just as Tom was looking for somewhere convenient to park his glass so he could leave, he became aware of a young woman hovering in front of him. She was smiling a little tentatively and had clearly been trying to attract his attention while he'd been scowling at Troop.
"You're Thomas Bedford, right?"
"Yes, I am. I'm sorry, I..."
She held out her hand and he shook it, a little too hard. His five-year-old documentary series on the history and culture of the Blackfeet had recently aired again on PBS and Tom imagined she must have recognized him from that. Or maybe she'd been to one of his occasional lectures here at UM. She was good-looking in an unflashy kind of way. Late twenties, he guessed, maybe thirty. Fair skinned and freckly, thick auburn hair bundled up in a green silk scarf. Tom pulled in his stomach and smiled.
"Karen O'Keefe," she said. "We have the same dentist. I saw you there a couple of weeks ago."
"Ah."
He tried not to look crestfallen. There was an awkward pause.
"Did you enjoy the talk?" she said.
"Oh, Troop always puts on a good show."
"You're friends?"
"Not exactly. We were on the writers' program here together. He was a couple of years ahead of me," he couldn't resist adding.
"I wanted to kick him."
Now Tom was interested. He laughed.
"Really? Why was that?"
"Oh, I don't know. All that phony modesty, when you can see from a hundred miles he's got an ego the size of Everest. If he could write a decent sentence, I might feel more charitable."
Tom smiled, trying not to look too pleased.
"Are you a writer?" he asked.
"A filmmaker. Like you. Except you're a filmmaker and a writer. And I'm not suggesting I'm on anything like your level. I really enjoyed seeing your Blackfeet series again, by the way. And I loved the book. Great piece of work. Kind of definitive. I must have given it to a dozen people."
"Thank you. That accounts for about half the total sales."
A fan. Tom wasn't used to it. He got the occasional letter, of course, but it had been years since he'd had an encounter like this. He was almost lost for words.
"How come an Englishman has this great passion for the West?" she said, filling the pause.
"Oh, that's a long story."
But it didn't stop him telling it. He had it perfectly honed: the childhood obsession with cowboys and Indians; how he'd grown up in little countryside and how, when he came to live in the States, the sheer scale of the real thing had blown him away; then his fascination at discovering the brutal truth behind all that myth and legend.
"You mean, like, the true story of the West."
"Yes. I remember that first time I went to Little Bighorn—"
"Tommy!"
A hand clamped his shoulder and as he turned, Troop locked him in a bear hug that squashed Tom's glasses into one eye. Luckily he'd finished his drink or it would have soaked them both. The Tommy had given him a shock. He thought he'd lost that name forever at boarding school. Along with his innocence and much else besides.
"Hello, Troop," he said. "How're you doing?"
"Good, man. Good! And all the better for seeing you."
Troop partially released him but was still gripping Tom's upper arms with his massive, hairy hands so that he could inspect him.
"You're looking good, man. You must work out?"
"No. Never have, never will."
"How's that gorgeous wife of yours—Jan, right?"
"Gina. We split up fifteen years ago."
"Shit. I'm sorry. You had a daughter, right?"
"A son. Daniel."
"Daniel. How's he doing?"
"Okay, I think. I don't see a whole lot of him. He's in Iraq at the moment."
"Jeez. A journalist?"
"No, he's with the Marines."
"An officer."
"Corporal."
"Well, I'll be damned."
"Won't we all."
Tom turned to Karen O'Keefe, who was watching them with a wry little smile. He introduced them and noted the way Troop fixed her with his dark eyes and gripped her arm while he shook her hand, holding it a few moments longer than was necessary. Tom had seen Bill Clinton do the same many times on TV.
"Karen is one of your greatest fans," Tom said.
"There's no accounting for taste," Troop said.
"Actually, I've never read a word you've written," Karen O'Keefe said. Tom was getting to like her more each moment.
"Well, that's okay too."
"Too drenched in testosterone, I'm afraid."
"And you know that even though you've never read a word I've written."
"You'd probably call it female intuition."
Troop smiled but his eyes had already hardened.
"Would I?"
He turned to Tom.
"Still living in Missoula?"
"Don't seem to be able to escape."
"It's a great part of the world. I just bought a place down in the Bitterroots."
"Great."
"It's just a cabin, really. But I figure on spending more time up here. LA gets a little frantic sometimes. Well, listen, I'd better—what do they call it?—circulate a little. Catch you later, Tom."
"You bet."
Troop nodded at Karen O'Keefe and she gave him a smile that somehow managed to be both courteous and insolent.
"What a jerk," she said when he was barely out of earshot.
"Remind me to stay on the right side of you."
She laughed and put her hand on his arm, letting it stay there for a moment.
They swapped numbers and e-mail addresses and went their separate ways. When Tom left she was talking with a cruelly handsome guy her own age. It had been a long time since he'd let himself feel attracted to a woman in that way. But he probably wouldn't call her. Since Gina left he'd had two or three romantic skirmishes but nothing that had lasted. He lived alone with his dog and that was how he liked it. He got lonely sometimes and missed the companionship, the physical intimacy, not that there had been much of either with Gina at the end.
The house they had built together sat in the bend of a creek about a mile east of town. As he came around the last corner his headlights found a small herd of deer holding a meeting in the middle of the road and he slowed and stopped and sat watching them until they melted into the trees. It was early spring and there was no moon and when he got out of his car, he stood for a long time in the driveway, staring at the stars and listening to the rush of the creek.
Makwi was there, as she always was, to greet him when he came in through the front door. She was a mongrel mix of deerhound, greyhound and collie, what in England or Ireland they would call a lurcher. She had a rough brindle coat and the biggest heart of any dog he'd known. He knelt and let her nuzzle his face while he rubbed her neck and her ears and told her he'd take her out for a walk in just a moment. She followed him into the kitchen and stood watching while he poured himself a glass of milk. The answering machine on the divider was flashing red, telling him there were four messages. He hit the play button and, as he waited for the tape to rewind, pulled out his cell phone. He'd switched it off for Troop's talk and forgotten to switch it back on. There were two voice mails.
All six messages were from Gina. They hadn't talked in more than a year. Her voice sounded strained and increasingly anxious at not being able to get hold of him. She didn't say why she needed to talk with him so urgently, but there was no need. He knew there could be only one reason. Danny. Something must have happened to Danny.